A crank-bot who loves to draw and hates to be corrected.

Tag Archives: Karachi

I recently came across a very well written article that highlighted the “other” side of Pakistan. (Link: http://www.dawn.com/news/1118136/the-other-pakistan) The article had some very nice pictures. Being brought up on the streets of Nazimabad, the only Pakistan I ever knew was the one that was known as the middle class. So I naturally came to terms with the fact that many of the aforementioned pictures were too heavy for me to comprehend. Think of my middle class brain as a slow internet connection that only loads 25% of the ‘Pakistani Ufone Sexy Model Asma’ picture that some “friend” has sent you in an email. Moreover, as I read further into the article, I realized that the pictures were only the tip of the pen..err…iceberg. The article seemed to have been written in an entirely different language. I mean I could read the alphabets. My middle class school taught me that much. But the meaning behind these mystically alien words were beyond my cretin understanding. By the time I finished, I had fallen deep into a state of existential crisis. “What Pakistan is this?” “What Pakistan am I living in?” “Why is there no mention of a Suzuki Mehran in the article?” “HerbX Enlargement Pill 0333 – 1234567!” Questions and thoughts like these kept popping up in my head. Over the next few hours, I had lost my appetite, my sleep and missed 37 calls from my jaanu. But it had to stop. And so, I set out on a 15 minute adventure to understand the sorcery that I had just been a victim of. 17 minutes later, I realized the article was a load of shit. It was twisted, misleading and downright insulting. I wasn’t okay with the way Pakistan was being portrayed. What percentage of the population did the stories in the article represent? I’d tell you what. The size of the ingrown hair on my left nut. And so, I have compiled a humble list of images that portray what me and a majority of my middle classed associates (fancy word for janis, cousins, rishtedars and next gali ke cricket team) actually do. I might be wrong but the last time I checked, a huge chunk of us still had papa double roti for breakfast and the only time we had a macaroon was when our khala cooked Shan ke macaroni.

Ladies and gentleman, behold, the average Pakistani.

Pani Ke Shadeed Qillat

An average Pakistani kicks his tap after a 3 day long water shortage in Karachi. Even the water in the puddle on the street has dried up by now and so, the kick. July 2014

Bijli ke jugarein

Homemade electrician, average Pakistani tries to mess with the phases in his electric box. The kunda outside his house are in full support of his actions. Karachi Electric, however, will shortly be issuing an arrest warrant for him. Him and millions of others just like him. July, August, September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May, June of forever.

Gym and swimming. Lol.

Educationalist and bathroom model, average Pakistani standing next to the “pool” of water in his bathroom after an incredible workout provided by fixing the kunda outside his house. The water shortage has ended, BTW. For now.

Maid in Pakistan

The average Pakistani Middle class boy texts his friend asking for 20 rs balance while putting the ripoff Aquafina water bottle on the bottle stand. He is waiting for this job to end so he can have some water.

Chilling in room

The average Pakistani reads a magazine in his bedroom cum drawing room cum store room while having a nice cup of tea.

Getting ready

An average wardrobe before trying to get ready for a party (birthday) and not having a fucking clue about what to wear.

Fitness

Doing pillates while fixing a bulb. Typical Pakistani El O El.

Hey man. I think my izaarhband is showing.

And finally, some climbing. The caption of this photo is a dilemma. This could either be the result of the Pakistani boy jumping into a house to fetch the cricket ball that his friend occidentally threw in or the same Pakistani boy trying to escape the house after being seen and caught by the uncle of the house who suspects the boy jumped in, bringing a rishta for the uncle’s Urdu science college going daughter. Eitherway, great exercise. The trainer cannot be seen in the picture though. That pussy has disappeared for good.

Yesterday, a friend and I were driving back home from another friend’s place and we spotted a bunch of individuals waving guns in the air. For a fraction of a minute, I hit the brakes and we practically shat our, carefully ironed, white shalwars, only to realize it was a bunch of kids playing with guns that, curses be on China, looked very, very real. All of a sudden it was funny. I mean a 3 foot tall human form waving 2 very big guns in the air and screaming at anything that resembles a possible “target”? It’s cute. Especially when you fall for it. But what I fell into, instead, was this constant state of frustration as I realized just how conveniently these kids were being exposed to the gun culture and how the sweet concept of Eidi that was once used to acquire icecream, gurya k baal and possibly chooran chatnis had now transformed into getting funds to “arm” yourself so you can “protect the hood”. Possible enemies: Moving cars, birds, stray dogs and colorful pedestrians. I managed to get a hold of one of these brats and he told me he needed the gun because, “hum jung-jung kheltay hein”. Now a lot of people tend to call me pessimistic. And maybe they aren’t exactly wrong but hey, this shit is 97 miles north of being “okay”. How is it that a child goes out with a lot of cash, gets a toy gun, “shoots” the whole world with it and then brings it home and manages to get away with it? Mom? Dad? Anyone give a damn? Even in the shittiest of Bollywood movies, the dying mother of the very violent, Suneil Shetti/Sanjay Dutt-ish, protagonist urges her son to keep his act together and be good, obviously referring to how it’s not okay to play “jung-jung” with the villain and his infinite stock of respawning henchmen. I don’t have kids, and so, obviously, I can’t be the right person to judge the general quality of parenting in our country but I do know when something is about to go terribly wrong and a kid brandishing a toy weapon and feeling happy about it is just not the kind of thing I am very optimistic about. With target killings and terrorist attacks and hate crimes and what not, the last thing we need is a child convinced in his head that it’s okay to carry a firearm and shoot your best friends with it.

Like this:

The sound of azaan echoed through the neighbourhood. The sun was about to set. Asif had been playing cricket for a couple of hours. Or atleast trying to. He had been feeling off since lunch break at school. The new brand of bottled water the canteen-wala had stocked his shelves with hadn’t exactly suited Asif’s already messed up stomach. He came home and walked slowly to the kitchen where amma was busy making chapatis for dinner. His face had gotten pale and his body had started to tremble. He gathered the courage to ask amma for help but all that came out was an inhuman groan. Amma turned around and looked at him. Her already hardened face had a frown. “Haan, tabyat hogae kharaab? Mana kia tha dhoop mein na khel cirkit. Ja ab, khambakht. Panadol kha aur so ja. Aur tu kar he kia sakta hay!” Asif nodded obediently and struggled towards the medicine cabinet. But before he could reach it, the world around him went dark.

Half an hour later, Asif had transformed into something that his mother would have easily labelled, “Shetani makhlooq”. But it was a bit too late for her to do that. Asif had already bitten his way through her neck. She, in turn, had “woken up” to bite Asif’s father who had just entered the house after a long day of work at the garment factory. Pretty soon, the whole neighbourhood was swarming with walking corpses of the ex-living inhabitants. News spread fast. The local masjid sent out a warning announcement which was loosely based around the concept of “jinnaat”, “azaab” and “iblees”. All hell broke loose.

Bilal was busy downloading porn on his second hand Pentium 3 when his loyal Nokia 1100 started to buzz. The screen said, “Bhai”. He picked it up and said salaam. The conversation that followed was pretty one sided and all Bilal did was nod his head. Minutes later he was out on the street, brandishing an old cricket bat. He was joined by a few of his muhallay k mates. They too had similar weapons at their disposal. “Scene on hay, bhai. Aaj tau khulla haath rakhna hay, maamay.”, exclaimed one of them in excitement. Bilal grinned in return.

Asif was no more. He was merely a block of decaying flesh walking around the now dead neighbourhood, jumping at the first chance of getting his gutka infested teeth into anything that moved. Every few seconds, he would run into someone from his muhalla. The local panw wala, the muhallay ke “aunty”. the corner walay baba and the college wali Munni. They would all stop for a few seconds, stare at each other and then walk away into random directions. The neighbourhood felt peaceful. The creatures walked quitely, like shadows in the night and rats under the floorboards. It was eerily beautiful. But like most things, it was short lived. “Maaro salon ko, bhen****!”, someone screamed and like an old clock turns into action, the neighbourhood came to life. Young, skinny, men came in from all directions swearing senselessly and carrying weapons of all sorts. Some had pipes. Others had knives. One of them even had a prosthetic leg. They were followed by older men, carrying guns and burning torches. “Jalaado, bhen****** ko!” Bhoon daalo”. Finally, came the news reporters. Everyone one of them screaming their channel’s name. It was crazy. The creatures, hundreds in numbers, were no match for the crazy mob that had done this drill before. They had been seasoned during the “loadshedding” riots, the “strike” riots, the “paani ke qillat” riots and the “burn all cng station” riots. They grinned and laughed and tore away the mindless creatures into several mindless pieces. Somewhere in the background, an old radio played, “Ay wattan k sajeelay jawaan…”

The sound of the Isha azaan echoed through the neighbourhood. Bilal and his friends were at the local chai dhaba sipping away at the brilliantly cooked doodh-patti. One of them cheerfully exclaimed, ” Abay, bachi ko tau fone krlay. Yahan say tau bach gaya, magar woh tau kacha chaba jayay ge.” Bilal grinned. His eye caught the view of the small TV at the counter. The news channel was reporting a disturbance in a small area of Karachi. He grinned again and looked away.